


Vine

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon sees Aragorn through the palantír.





	Vine

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Mildly AU snippet for [this week’s silmread](http://silmread.tumblr.com/post/167688917365/52-the-passing-of-the-grey-company) wherein Aragorn look into the Stone of Orthanc.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It isn’t often that the stone tugs at him—usually, he bends it to his will, and it’s _Mairon_ who calls forth the other side. The foolish old man who once thought to defy him has since lost possession, but that was for the best—Mairon knew that whoever found it next wouldn’t stand so strong. There are few of his kind left in Middle Earth, and none ever held his might. When the palantír glows and beckons, he thinks it will be another tiny _nothing_ , having fetched the stone by chance and quick to be crushed beneath its darkness.

But that isn’t the case on this occasion. The stone pulses brighter, drawing Mairon like a moth towards a flame. His precious fire rolls inside it, and he peers down through the depths, ready to stamp out whatever mind was unwise enough to call him.

The blackness wavers, and through the dark, a pale face forms, hard and stern, but soft in the ways of Men. A man looks back at him, suddenly clear, with piercing eyes and staggering _beauty_ , the sort of which he hasn’t seen in _centuries_. For a moment, Mairon’s chest constricts, body taut in its reaction—the most jarring of which is that the man stares straight at him, unafraid, like few ever have. Mairon’s attention is caught, rapt, tied to this fierce Man: only that: _a mortal_ , who’s disheveled dark hair and thin sprinkling of stubble should mark him nothing more than a worthless vagabond. But Mairon’s seen those eyes before. The longer he looks, the more he knows. The realization twists down into his gut, and he’s sure of it: _Isildur_.

But that line should be dead. Long dead. Yet this man’s bearing is unmistakable, and Mairon can see it in the lines of his handsome face. A name whispers to him through the aged depths of the stone: _Aragorn_. Mairon’s tongue forms the word, and Aragorn sees it happen. His eyes widen, then harden, and his will crashes against the walls of its prison, while Mairon surges forward in a tidal wave of malice. His wrath pours through the stone to drown the world, waiting to sweep Aragorn away, and Aragorn flinches, but stands strong, stronger than he shoulder, fighting tooth and nail to withstand Mairon’s boundless fury.

None should be able to. No elf could, a pitiful _Man_ least of all. But Aragorn bears him. They battle with their minds alone, and Mairon’s ever close to winning, but Aragorn never falls. Finally, the Man begins to slip away, but not for Mairon’s victory. Mairon _seethes_ and roars his anger: _no one walks away from him._ But Aragorn pulls free, the stone going blank and empty, cold to the touch as though the battle never happened. Mairon stares at it, breathless.

The rest of it all seeps away. The war, the battles, the petty skirmishes and lands pale in comparison. Out there, someone almost _worthy_ of his thought actually lives and breathes. Aragorn, heir of Isildur, walks the earth. And Mairon wants nothing more than to _possess him_.

There was a time, long ago, when that would be enough. He would whine to his master of his boredom, and Melkor would bring him idle toys: pretty Men and Elves to play with, to use up and spend how he might like. This is one that he would ask for, and his master would’ve obliged him, dragging Aragorn in by that dark, knotted hair to throw at Mairon’s feet, and Mairon would punish his new pet for ever daring to defy him, then set him aside upon a shelf to be broken out on dull evenings. Mairon’s long fingers flex as he thinks of it—the games he would play with such a toy, perhaps strong enough to actually _last_ , when all the Men he captures now break so easily upon his altar. 

As his anger simmers into longing, Mairon’s mind sets to work. He must plan for it. He doesn’t want this one to die in battle—he wants Aragorn to march right to his gates, so he can snatch Aragorn up to be _all his_. The Orcs won’t have him, the Nazgûl won’t. The war will finish anyway, and when it does, Aragorn will be his trophy, his just reward for all his work: his prize and crowning jewel.

Mairon smiles as he thinks of it. He starts to laugh. His cackles echo off the walls of his high tower, and all his ugly minions cower in his wake, having no clue of what’s to come.


End file.
